Chapter 6: The Proper Villain

Cathal Conway’s BaBoomz photos were better than I had dreamed. He somehow managed to pull off a couple of minor miracles. He glamorized the strippers, especially the girls. Nothing sleazy, not even close. Each girl looked interesting, appealing, mysterious. And mystery is difficult to achieve when you’re stark fucking naked. Oh, maybe heels.

In addition, those black and white photos with blurry backgrounds evoked a Flapper Girl era. The 1920s, before the Crash. A couple of the pictures, had the girls been clothed, could have been “Vogue” covers. Back in the day.

Even Gertie was impressed, “Well worth the investment.”

It’s a bit of a chore but we rotate the pictures each night at BaBoomz. So only that night’s strippers are spotlighted along the south wall. Even the display itself looks classy — eight or ten soft pools of light.

Vanessa and I used the photos — boys and girls — to create 8 x 10 handouts for our customers. On the backside, there’s the retro BaBoomz logo — a silhouette of nude girl standing in a classic martini glass — along with the BaBoomz address and web site. The stage name of each performer.

We were surprised how popular the guys’ handouts were. Several women took multiple copies. Gertie said, “Perfect. Free advertising.”

Walker nodded, “The best kind, word of mouth.”

Pilar patted his knee, “Erections.”

The biggest surprise of the Cathal project wasn’t those lush black & white photos; it was personal.

While there hadn’t been the romantic fairy dust between Cathal and Cindy Rankin that I had hoped for, something clicked with Juanita Garcia. I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but after three dates, the crime scene photographer and the once-busted stripper were an item. To the point where she cancelled her move back to St. Louis.

Over time, the two families merged. Blended. Juanita and her two boys — 8 and 10. Buster and BJ relayed to me that their friend, Riles, is delighted to have two unofficial brothers. Stepbrothers I guess, but the three of them seem to be getting along. A quiet house with just Cathal and Riles is now boisterous. Filled with laughter, arguments, good-natured teasing.

Cathal and Juanita rented a three-bedroom house, still in Raytown. Juanita cut back her BaBoomz commitment to three nights a week. She didn’t want to quit completely, not until the arrangement with Cathal had some more miles on it. She still had relationship-hesitation after her first marriage dissolved.

But so far, so good. BJ fist-bumped me, “Good work, Slim Shady. Cath needed him a lady.”

The footnote to our BaBoomz photographic escapade was a complete surprise to Vanessa and me.

She and I had been shopping for a new florist — she swaps out arrangements at Euforia every four or five days. I called Walker, “We’re catching dinner at the Unicorn. See you and Pilar later.”

“Say hi to Bess. She’s warm for my form.”

“Bite me.”

Vanessa and I had prosciutto-wrapped melon and only one glass of Prosecco. Each of course.

I said, “I read about a woman who serves Prosecco, potato chips, and parmesan to her party guests.”

“That’s all? Hmm ... it could work. Salty and sweet. Aged parmesan.” She nodded, thinking about the flavors. “Parmesan Reggiano instead of Pecorino Romano. There’s enough salt in the chips.”

I rested on my hand on her thigh as she maneuvered her XKE, British racing green, through the City Market, over those fucking freeways, through the Power & Light District. Then home to our beloved Wrigley.

Nature Boy, attired in his usual white sneakers, this time with bright green anklets, nodded pleasantly, “Ms. Winter, Ms. Vanessa. Floor please.”

Vanessa slapped his bare butt just like Pilar does, “Six please.”

He expertly glided the large freight elevator to a smooth stop on five and we were home.

Vanessa darted a glance at me. We both knew, knew instantly, something was up. Walker and Pilar had their best poker faces on; their best is nowhere good enough. Even Hobo looked a little suspicious.

But we played it cool. Let the kids have their fun. Spring whatever surprise was in store whenever they felt like it. Still I was beginning to feel a spark of annoyance when Pilar stood, held out her hand to Walker, “Come on, Papi, time to take care of you.”

It was around 11 and ... no new news. Fine.

Vanessa and I snuggled a while longer. On our green leather couch, enjoying the cityscape out our Main Street windows. Smooched a little. Then rose around midnight and headed back to our bedroom suite. Undress, brush teeth, a little light fooling around.

Bam! Another Cathal Conway black & white. Walker. Nude. Rolled back on his shoulders, performing. His specialty — autofelatio. Sucking his own cock; about three or four inches inside his mouth. By my own expert estimation.

Like with the strippers, Cathal had captured my son in that flattering morning sunlight. The background was blurred, Walker was the cynosure of the photo. Your eyes were drawn, compellingly, to his lithe, slender, body.

With his legs stretched out behind his head, toes on the floor, it was a horizontal picture. Later Vanessa measured it. With the white matting providing a wide border and with the black frame, it totaled 28 x 34. Not a coincidence. Those are the exact dimensions of the print it replaced — David Hockney’s “Garrowby Hill”.

So the same picture lighting worked.

Vanessa was smiling widely. I’m sure I was frowning in parental disapproval. Or would be in a minute.

The Proper Villain ... well, it’s like he’s always been with us. He and Hobo are practically inseparable. When Wally Maypole takes Hobo to Washington Square to play Stick, the PV rides right along. Literally. He hops up on Hobo’s back for the stroll to the park. Then sits watchfully as his buddy races back and forth to fetch and return the Stick.

When it’s time to go home, Hobo stands still for the PV to hop up. Off they go, the three of them. Wally, Hobo, the Proper Villain.

As part of his self-assumed elevator duties, Nature Boy always says, “Floor please.”

Wally Maypole whispers, “Two please.”

Gentle elbow from Pilar.

Standing straighter, a little louder, “Two please.”

Hobo looks pleased. Did the PV nod?

Nature Boy, “Here you are, sir.”

On her own, Pilar has taken to calling Bianca Martinez once every month or so. Just checking in, making sure she still has that Whisk-Away job. That Troy fucking Ventura hasn’t tried to contact her.

This is typical of Pilar. I might have asked her to keep in touch. If I’d thought of it. I hadn’t, she had.

Back in Raytown, back at Moe’s Diner, back with bacon cheeseburgers. Except this time there were six of them. Cheeseburgers. For Buster and BJ. Riles Conway. And her two sort-of stepbrothers, Jorge Garcia and Javier Garcia. Five kids plus Winter Jennings ... looking like she’s 22.

Buster, at 12, is the senior representative of the junior set. Riles and Jorge are 10, while BJ and Javier clock in at 8. Prodigious appetites, no matter how young.

BJ, cheeks bulging, nodded at the Garcia boys, “Juanita they mamacita.”

“I know. She’s nice.”

Buster, stuffing fries, “Sexy too. Sexy as hell.”

Jorge and Javier gave us shy little grins and nodded.

I began my proactive investigation of Dixie Wexler with a trip to Billings, Montana. Sergeant Cathy Riggins had reported that he was still in his home lair. The Yellowstone County Sheriff’s Department was quite willing to share Wexler info with another Sergeant — Louise Finch.

Now this is strictly a recon mission. I have no intention of confronting him. In fact, I have no intention of even letting him spot me. Out of sight, out of mind. I hope.

But I am determined to see him. To physically confirm that he is indeed the cowboy hat that had been following me around in Kansas City. Also, I want to see where he lives. Works — Butler Brothers Security. And, I’ll check out the original RightWorld headquarters. The action has shifted to their new building in DC, but if I’ve learned anything in this Gunther-Meriwether mess, it’s to be careful. Be thorough. Be fucking sneaky.

Not for nothing, I packed my new cowgirl boots. I’d broken them in while I was in DC and they’d fit right into the Montana scene. Crime-buster Tip # 42 — blend.

I had Wexler’s mugshot beside me in my Hertz, a Jeep Compass. Picked up at the Helena airport. Like my cowgirl boots, the Jeep will look at home in the West. I didn’t mind the 250 mile drive to Billings; in fact I was looking forward to the Big Sky scenery. My first time in Montana.

I’d selected the Helena airport instead of Billings ... well, just in case.

Upstairs from BaBoomz, The Club has been a success from the first weekend opening. I’d have liked more women members — the ratio favored men at around 70 percent to 30. But men spend more in bars. And tip better.

Because The Club is a private ... um, club, we were able to go as nude as we wanted. The strippers of course. But the waitresses too. We gave them flexibility — they could wear, within reason, whatever they wanted. No Playboy Club vibe, more individual freeform.

And Vanessa and I told them, “Find your own comfort level. The guys will try to get handsy. Let ‘em or don’t, your call.”

Usual waitress uniform: a cropped tee with shorts or a tiny skirt. I know for a fact that some of the skirt girls dispensed with panties as the evening wore on. Also as it grew later, some of the women members grew as raucous as some of the men. Handsy.

More than one female asked Vanessa and me, “When do we get some sexy waiters?”

Fair enough. We don’t want to have a Ladies Night up in The Club, but showing some male flesh might not be a bad plan. And the boys were certainly game — we’d winnowed out the prudes. The Ladies Night strippers were used to, comfortable with, getting felt up. Through the thong, sometimes inside it.

So maybe we’ll rotate a few boys upstairs. Maybe.

After the Lady in Red — Alice Rancher — discovery, Vanessa went on full alert. She checked her viewing history on Netflix, Amazon Prime, HBO. Made notes on different cases. Researched crime shows and movies that she hadn’t yet seen.

And, paid more attention to the local news than ever before.

So, not that much of a surprise when she spotted the third Kansas City killing that was linked to another European television show.

A woman had been blinded, probably a razor. Before her throat was slit. Probably the same razor. The body was found outside a closed meatpacking plant near Southwest Boulevard. One of the first responders at the crime scene — a second year patrolman named Paco Fuentes — recognized the poor woman. Juanita Gomez. Hotel maid at the Westin in Hallmark’s commercial development — Crown Center. Just across Main Street, about a block from Union Station. And close to the Wrigley.

Vanessa and I were sitting at our kitchen table experimenting with Prosecco, potato chips, and parmesan. Her iPhone beeped, a notification from the local NPR station. She scrolled. Gasped. Closed her eyes for a sec, then stared at me, “Winter, another murder. “Peaky Blinders, this time.” Has to be.”

Walker, “Who would you do? I mean besides me?”

Pilar, eyelashes batting, “Why no one, my dear. No one else.”